


Under My Skin

by Tea_and_Sympathy



Series: Northern Sky [6]
Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: A bit angsy but it works out because I made them drink beer and eat chips, Finally just the two of them, M/M, Sweet and romantic as ever because that's what I need at the moment, They have all of Thursday all to themselves, Tom gets a back story, With a brief cameo from Dakin's mum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23689090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_and_Sympathy/pseuds/Tea_and_Sympathy
Summary: Stu puts gravy on his chips, which Tom says is, objectively, a disgusting habit. Tom has salt and a moderate quantity of vinegar. Stu calls him a soft southern poof - none of which can be denied.
Relationships: Stuart Dakin/Tom Irwin
Series: Northern Sky [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642348
Comments: 24
Kudos: 21





	Under My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I was cross with these two for being angsty and gloomy when I started, but I'm in love with them again now. They are sweet and useless and fated somehow. I could not get them to be amusing at all at first - and love apart - I want them gently amusing. But I let them keep going and I think it worked out - they worked it out. And once they'd started talking they wouldn't shut up - so it's long...

**Thursday**

When Stuart wakes, he’s alone. He’d stretched out to find Tom and found the bed next to him cold.

But then he’s walking into the room bringing a mug of tea. Stuart smiles, “Morning. Is that for me? If you throw in a blow job, I’ll probably have to marry you”.

Tom smiles, weakly, and sets the tea next to him. “Do you have to take the piss?”

“Sorry. Yeah, I told Scripps I’d work on that”.

“There’s a time and a place, Stuart”.

“And this is neither?”

“Yes. I mean, no”.

“That sounds ominous. What’s wrong? Did I do something? The bed’s cold – you must have been up ages”. Stu sits up in bed hugging his knees, while Tom perches on the edge by his feet.

Tom looks as though he’s struggling to know how to start, but he smiles anyway, “You looked so… peaceful when you were sleeping; I didn’t want to wake you ... But the thing you said last night when you thought I was asleep...”

“Oh. That. I thought you liked it”. He picks up the tea, peering at Tom over the rim of the mug. Welcome though the tea is, the mug makes a good shield. Something’s up - he would have preferred to be better prepared.

Tom stares at the floor, “It’s not a question of liking it. Is it true? Did you mean it?”

Is that all this is? He just needs to hear it again and believe it? Stuart relaxes into a gentle tease and puts the mug down. “So, truth is important now? What would be the point of saying it when I thought you were asleep, if I didn’t mean it?”

Tom flashes him a look of irritation – a visual reiteration of, there’s a time and a place and this isn’t it. “I never said truth wasn’t important – not when it matters, not in the here and now. But I suppose there’s some kind of circular logic to that”.

Stuart, not for the first time, regrets his knee-jerk flip reaction to anything said in a grave tone. He attempts the only surefire way he knows to regain control, “Come back to bed, Tom… please. If we’re going to have a deep and meaningful, could we at least be in bed?”

But the surefire backfires. Tom’s gaze has returned resolutely to his feet. “Would you say it again, please? To my face. In daylight”.

Stuart hotches himself forward enough to rub his back, not knowing which of them the gesture is intended to reassure. “Okay. Tom - look at me - if you want me to say it to your face, you’ll have to look at me”. Tom doesn’t move, so taking hold of his chin, Stuart turns his face towards him. He looks ready to run. That timid creature from last night is back and only soothing words seem appropriate. Slowly and softly he says, “I love you. You know I love you”. It feels good to say it again – fully conscious. The dam has burst and it rolls easily off his tongue. “Come back to bed and I’ll show you I love you.”

This, intended to raise a smile - one of those, sexy, half mocking, exasperated ones he loves - achieves nothing. Tom pulls his face from Stuart’s grip and looks away again. He might be pushing away tears – but Stu doesn’t think he wants to know. “Why is it making you sad? That wasn’t the intention. And I notice, because I am an observant kind of fellow, you haven’t said it back”.

“I rather assumed you took it for granted”. There are definitely tears - he can hear them; he doesn’t want to see them. He laughs, but it’s hollow, “I do. But I’d like to hear it anyway”.

Tom shakes his head, “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t”.

Stu is becoming plain annoyed by all this and he can’t keep it from his voice. “Oh, thanks. You make me say it to your face but you just can’t. Cheers, Tom. I know where I stand then”. Silence falls. A silence in which they both decide to meet the other half way. In a kinder tone, Stu addressing the back of Tom’s head, says, “Why is it making you so unhappy? Melancholy rather. Do you want to talk about it?”

And Tom swallows hard, paints on a smile and turns back to him, “No, not really - forget it. We’ve got the whole summer ahead. No point getting in a September mood now is there?”

But Stu’s damned if he’s going to let it go that easily. He thinks he knows, but he wants to _know_! “No, that won’t do. I think I can guess. Do you mind if I guess?”

Tom blows out his cheeks - stares back at the floor, “If you must. I don’t suppose anything I say will stop you”.

“Okay, here goes...whereas, I was - until about three this morning - a virgin when it comes to declarations of love, you’re not, are you?”

“No”

“Ah”

“It’s fine. Bad memories, that’s all. I have some much better memories now and I fully intend to make some more”. Tom leans in to kiss him and Stuart Dakin – never before known to say no – pushes him away.

And holds him away, “I’m glad to hear it but you’re sad and you’re scared and I won’t have it”.

“You think I’m scared?”

“Shitless, yes. I’ve seen that look before. What is going on?... Tom?”

“Okay, look. The thing is, I can’t be your dirty secret, Stu. I can’t be something - someone - you’re ashamed of. You can’t say you love me and then…”

“...Jesus, have you met me? Stuart Dakin, pleased to meet you – utterly shameless. For God’s sake, will you just tell me what happened”.

Tom abandons any attempt at good humour and throws the full weight of his bitterness behind, “What happened is married now and he has a year-old baby so I was, apparently, a phase”.

“Oh...”

“And it would be okay if it had been trivial, but it wasn’t fucking trivial. I even went to the wedding - as a good friend”.

“Well, that was cruel - to invite you”.

“Not to invite me would have looked suspicious. I can’t imagine why I went though. Pride? Masochism?”

“Speak now or forever hold your peace?”

“Yes, I imagined I’d say something. I had all kinds of melodramatic fantasies. Obviously, I didn’t - I couldn’t do it to her, never mind him. If I was going to stop it, I should have done it before the wedding”.

“Was he older than you?”

“A bit”.

“Like us?”

“Yes, a few years. Does it matter?”

“No, sorry, just curious”. Stuart _is_ curious – curious to know where his empathy lies and what his experience brings. He had assumed Tom didn’t know what it was like to be him – he thought at least he had that advantage.

“But, Jesus, it was like I never existed. People kept asking me how I knew the groom. I didn’t think it prudent to say we’d been fucking like rabbits until a few months ago and he’d told me I was the love of his life. Not the done thing. I went to my hotel room and got absolutely shit-faced drunk instead. By myself – it’s amazing I didn’t do damage to something… or someone. But he was always ashamed of me. No one knew - no one. Frankly, it wasn’t a very happy time”.

Stuart, at a loss for words, says, “You are the master of understatement”.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m dredging up the whole sordid mess… but, when you said what you said… I... it felt good, but I’ve been here before and… it really hurts, Stu – like nothing you can imagine. I can’t do it again”.

Stuart feels a righteous anger begin to rise. A paradox of knowing he wouldn’t be here now, but for that betrayal, and wanting to protect and defend a Tom he never knew. But why does Tom think he can’t understand? Too young? Too callow? Too shallow? Whatever, it’s annoying. Jesus, isn’t his head stuffed with enough consolatory literature to be able to fill in with imagination what he lacks in experience? Wasn’t that the whole point of it?

“I can imagine, actually. What a shit. Don’t let me ever meet him, I’d…”

“… No, I don’t think that would be wise... then again, though…” Tom almost manages a mischievous smile.

“Yeah, that could be fun. His loss is my gain, Tom, and I won’t do that to you. I promise I won’t do that”. Stuart hopes that’s all that needs to be said; Tom jollied out of it and move on with the day.

But he’s misjudged it and Tom snaps at him, “Christ, Stu – that's the whole point! You can’t say that because you can’t know that. You like women - more than he ever did and it’s the line of least resistance. And I certainly don’t think you have monogamy in you. You’re too young – I don’t have the right to ask or expect anything of you. Don’t make promises you can’t keep”.

Stuart thinks of all the promises his father’s broken – promises rashly made and never intended to be kept. All the lies, great and small, sins of commission and omission. All the careless disregard for… anything but himself and his own pleasure. His selfishness, his neglect, his cruelty. The cruelty that always starts with “don’t make me”, followed by “look what you made me do” and ends with “I’m sorry, I’ll never do that again - but you shouldn’t push me”. Every time. He’s starting to feel that kind of don’t-push-me anger. He has begun to understand the journey to manhood as a process of invention and, at this moment, his only concern is to not reinvent his father.

“Right... move!”

“What?”

“Get out of the way so I can get out of bed”.

“Why?”

“If you won’t get in, I’m getting out”.

Tom stands up, reluctantly - but Stuart had begun kicking him through the bedclothes, so little choice. “What are you doing? Stuart, you’re stark naked”.

“I’m aware of that. And I’m making a fool of myself”.

Stuart paces about the room like a caged bear. A naked man stomping around in high dudgeon is a comical sight, no matter how beautiful he is, and Tom doesn’t disagree. “Yes, you are”.

“Good, maybe you’ll listen then. Because I’m going to make you some promises”.

Tom passes an exasperated hand over his forehead, “Don’t, Stuart, please”.

“None I can’t keep”. He points an accusatory finger, “You are not going to pull that ‘I’m the grown-up’ shit with me. We both know it isn’t true. Sit down”.

“Stand up, sit down – make up your mind. Look, forget I said anything. I’m being maudlin. It doesn’t matter”.

Stuart blows a gasket – he hasn’t got this worked up and humiliated himself to be told the thing isn’t important. He yells, “No? Well, it bloody well matters to me. Sit down!” And then, surprised and scared by his own voice - more softly, “please”.

Tom sits back down – though Stuart isn’t sure if it was the yelling or the ceasing to yell that did it. He doesn’t think he’ll test it again – doesn’t want to know where the power lies. Stuart gets on the floor, kneels in front of Tom and grabs both his hands. He makes himself small, consciously suppressing the urge to dominate – intimidate even. And, if the man is going to insist on burning a hole through his feet with his stare, the only way to get him to look you in the eye is to get beneath him.

Except now he’s looking sideways! Anywhere but at Stuart. Addressing the wall, he says, “Stu, get off your knees, this is ridiculous”.

“If I’m ridiculous, ridicule me – God knows you’ve had enough practice. And you’ve seen me naked on my knees before, so shut up and listen...and look at me! Look at me, Tom”.

He says nothing more until Tom reluctantly turns to look directly at him.

“Right. I love you and it’s the best thing that has ever happened to me – fuck Oxford. The reason I’ve never said that to anyone before is because I’ve never felt it before and I’m not any good at lying. I have no idea where we’ll end up or even the direction of travel, and neither do you, but I know I want you along for the ride. Trying to second-guess the future hasn’t worked out too well for us so far, has it?” He squeezes Tom’s hands to make it clear the question isn’t rhetorical. “Has it?”

“No, I suppose not”.

“No. And you’re right, there’s probably going to be girls, maybe even boys – I can’t promise there won’t be because I’m weak and vain and, yes, young. Though the truth is… don’t roll your eyes!”

“I’m sorry. Go on, tell me what the truth is”.

“The truth is, I can’t imagine wanting or needing another man when I have you”. He pauses to gauge Tom’s reaction and gets an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement. “But, whatever happens, I promise - I promise - I won’t lie to you about it. I'll tell you as much or as little as you want to know and I won’t play stupid games. I really am crap at lying, you see – don't see the point. I’ll be as honest as you need me to be. And what about you - who knows? You’ve got this big adventure ahead. Don’t you think I’ve thought about how small and insignificant this might - I might - seem to you in a year, six months even?”

“It won’t. You won’t. You couldn’t”.

“Yes. Yes, I could. I know it. Christ, exactly how arrogant do you think I am? And, if you think I can’t imagine what that would feel like… You could absolutely break my heart, but I’m not going to run away because I’m scared of the possibility. But the main thing is, I promise I’ll never pretend this wasn’t - isn’t - real. I promise I will never pretend this was trivial – because it’s not fucking trivial. And I absolutely promise never to be ashamed of you - of this - I promise never to be ashamed of us. In fact, judging by that tape last night, I suspect I’m going to be properly proud of you - even if it’s me, five years from now, saying – yeah, I knew him once. No, fuck that - saying - I loved him, I fucking loved him”.

Stuart, naked and on his knees, strips Tom down to his defenceless core – as he always could. “Have you finished?”

“Yes. I’ve finished...” He laughs. “Do you need any of it in writing?”

Tom gently lifts him up - reaching down and placing his hands around his ribs, running them up to lift Stu’s arms around his neck. But Stuart’s response is swift and relentless: kissing him hard; crawling over him; forcing him to scrabble backwards; pushing him back on the bed - the anger he’s been crushing transformed to passion.

But, without warning and with unexpected strength, Tom seizes his arms, flips him on his back and pins him down. After a stunned silence, Stuart, slightly winded, asks, “What are you doing?”

“Making a fucking point”, Tom laughs, “I love you, by the way.”

“You bastard, you made me work for that, didn’t you?”

“Nothing worth having is easily come by”

“... And my tea’s gone cold now – oh, yeah, didn’t we have an appointment for you to fuck me senseless?”

Stuart’s flippancy belies the ferocity of his desire for this man – so much of it centred on his mouth: his words of fluid intelligence, dry wit, stinging criticism and delighted approval; his cadences from anger to flirtation; his secret smiles - wry, sad, knowing, and - the most hard won - joyfully unguarded. And knowing the rhythms of his quick, clever tongue translate to a flair for the erotic Stuart could hardly have guessed at, he’s hungry to learn more. As Tom searches his face for something unknowable and the grip of his hands becomes painful, Stuart holds his gaze and adds, “I want you so fucking much.”

Tom gives him that longed for smile and says, “hmmm, yes, I can tell”.

He lets him go long enough to take off his glasses and place them carefully by the side of the bed.

*******

Like all new lovers, they’re only forced from their bed by other primary needs – hunger, thirst ...a ringing phone. Stuart’s in the bathroom; Tom answers it.

It’s unsettling answering the phone to someone who sounds so feminine and so like Stu. He wants to ask her if she’s alright and where she is. He wants to say he knows, and it’s okay, and Stuart misses you; he’s worried about you - please tell him what he needs to hear. She asks if her son is there - she’s been told he’s there - sorry, but Scripps gave her the number. She sounds scared, embarrassed, tentative...but still, she sounds like Stu. All Tom says is, “hold on, I’ll find him.”

He knocks on the bathroom door. “Stu?... Stu, your mum’s on the phone.”

“Shit. Can you keep her talking a couple of minutes? I’ll be there in a sec. Please, Tom.”

“Okay, be quick”.

He goes back to the phone. What the hell is he meant to call her? Mrs Dakin - God, that’s weird. He thinks Stu said her name’s Ann – but he’s not sure. He racks his brain to remember if he’s met her. A school event of some kind? He pictures her small and pretty - face framed with dark waves - younger than you’d expect. An image intrudes of Stuart with his arm around her - yes, on the sports field - his arm around her shoulders and he’s smiling at her and she’s laughing. A shared joke, maybe - private and inviolable. A fabrication? No matter, the rush of tenderness it provokes is real enough.

“Hello. Yeah, he’s coming - won’t be a sec”. He didn’t call her anything - just said, yeah. Honestly, what kind of grown up is he?

She says, “Thank you. Sorry, I don’t know your name”, which makes him feel even more inept for not using hers.

“Tom”, he answers, and then, completely pointlessly, “I’m a friend of Stuart’s”. Fucking stupid thing to say, he thinks. Well, he can’t say, “I’m in love with your son. Don’t worry, he’ll be okay; I’ll take care of him”, can he?

She apologises for asking, but she’s in a phone box and could Stuart possibly call her? Tom takes the number. It’s the smallest of small favours, but it pleases him. Stuart appears, looking rattled.

“She didn’t hang up, did she?”

“No, she’s in a phone box, she wants you to call back. The number’s there. I’ll go, and give you some privacy”.

“No…I… can you stay? Please”.

Stuart takes a deep breath and dials. He gets it wrong – substitutes a two for a three and slams the handset down.

“Shit”

“It’s okay, she’s not going anywhere”.

“Fuck. My hands are shaking”.

Tom picks the phone up and dials the number for him. As the interminable nine clicks its way back round the dial, he gives him a reassuring smile and hands him the phone.

Stuart smiles and mouths, “thank you”, before he says, “mum?”

Tom’s end of the conversation is mostly _yes_ and _no_ and _uh huh_ and, even though he’s been asked to stay, he busies himself round the room and tries not to intrude - though he hears Stu say, “It’s, okay, I can stay here - Tom’s fine with it.” Tom catches his eye and smiles, by way of confirming he really is fine with it. Stuart writes something on the note pad - pauses - looks at Tom - looks embarrassed and says, “I love you too”, before hanging up.

“Okay?”

“No. Not really.”

“Is she okay, though?”

“Yeah, she’s with the bloke I told you about. So, no surprises there. She wants me to get her some stuff from the house and meet her - next week - so we can talk properly”.

“Are you okay to do that?”

“Well, if he catches me getting her stuff, he’ll kill me – I’m not supposed to know anything. But I don’t have an address so he can’t get that out of me anyway”.

“I’ll come with you. Or, Scripps – would you prefer that?”

“No. You come. Oh, God – I don’t know. You’ve never met him, have you?”

“No. I think I might have met your mum briefly, but not your dad”.

“That will be because he never turned up to anything. Always said he would – can’t remember him ever doing it. But good - so, if he should show up, he’ll have no idea who you are?”

“No. And I’ll give you a couple of hours off that never being ashamed thing – I’m happy to be a friend”.

“I wouldn’t be ashamed…”

“…I’m not suggesting you would - merely cautious”.

“Yeah. Do you ever get used to it?”

“What?”

“Pretending. Hiding. Lying”.

“No. You get good at it. But you never get used to it. Sorry”.

Stu laughs, “You were never any good at it. You had, ‘I fancy the arse off Stuart Dakin’ tattooed on your forehead”.

“Cheeky git…”

The rest of the conversation proceeds in the breathless spaces between lips sliding together and tangled tongues and teeth grazing necks and ears and clothing disarrayed the better to glide hands over skin: their words are spoken against pulse points, vibrated over bone, bitten into lips, breathed into each other’s mouths.

“… and you weren’t exactly Mr Discretion either... please, _Sir_...but, _Sir_... notice me, _Sir_...”

“...fuck off...”

“...love me… _Sir_ ”

“...enough!”

“Did I touch a nerve…?”

“… maybe, _Sir_ ”.

“You know what I prescribe…for our melancholy fit?”

“… nuh uh…Keats? Never pegged you for a romantic...”

“...strenuous tongues bursting Joy’s grape?... pure...sex... Yeah, Keats… no, idiot, beer… beer and chips… afternoon in a beer garden... we never had that drink... shall we do it now?”

“Uh huh...soon...in a bit...we’re going to need this to last us the afternoon, aren’t we?”

“C’mon… or we’ll end up back in bed and I’m hungry… for chips... and beer… that is”.

“Shut up...I’m not that bad...I can resist… anyway, me too...starving. Yes…beer… and chips…so, you should…mmm… oh, God… stop doing that then...”

“...yeah… I will… soon”.

They do not end up back in bed. Not yet anyway - although there is a detour via the sofa before the pull of beer, chips and sunshine reasserts itself.

Their afternoon is a scene out of time and place. One which, in any normal ordering of things, would have come first - before the days spent in bed and the exploration, inch by inch, of each other’s bodies. Things being as they are, being unable to touch, to kiss, to give any outward sign of physical connection, forces a reset. They talk of the things two such intimately acquainted people should, by rights, already know about each other.

Stu puts gravy on his chips, which Tom says is, objectively, a disgusting habit. Tom has salt and a moderate quantity of vinegar. Stu calls him a soft southern poof - none of which can be denied.

Stu, an only child, envies Tom his relationship with his older sister - though he struggles to imagine Tom as anyone’s little brother. Tom says she’s fierce and funny and protective of him, so be careful. Stu wonders if he’ll ever meet her - finds the prospect terrifying.

Tom envies Stuart his relationship with his mum - though Stu explains it’s born of creating a united front against his father. He loves her but admits she’s leaned on him too hard - made him her little man when he needed to be a little boy. Not that he blames her. Her leaving sets him free - she said as much on the phone. But he feels abandoned, never-the-less, in free fall anyway.

Tom asks, “What about her new man?”

“What about him?”

“You’re jealous”.

“Am I fuck; I’m happy for her”.

“They’re not mutually exclusive emotions, Stuart. You’re jealous”.

And Stuart realises, once again, there is no substitute for experience; Tom is still drawn to teach him and he to learn.

Tom tells a story from childhood of the time blackbirds nested in their garden and how he’d been horrified to discover the fledglings are pushed out of the nest a week or so before they can fly. They’re left helpless on the ground until they get their wings in. He’d guarded and protected them for a week, seeing off all threats and ignoring all pleas to come inside and let nature take its course. He’d been rewarded with seeing two of them fly off, but his own cat had got the third. With hindsight he thinks it a reasonable ratio, given the inevitable attrition rate of such a policy. And he’d still loved the cat.

Stuart asks if he’s comparing him to a helpless fledgling and Tom answers that not everything’s a metaphor - it was just a memory and probably says more about him than it does Stu. “Anyway, dogs or cats?”

“Dogs”

“Because you must be adored. Unconditionally adored”.

“Yeah, and you don’t like that?”

“I prefer respect to be earned”.

“Respect? How about Love?”

“That too”.

“Ha! Well I’m not wedded to it. I have catholic tastes, as you know”.

Tom laughs and raises his glass, “Chapeau, Mr Dakin, chapeau”.

Tom’s relationship with his own parents is cool, cordial, buttoned down. Do they know he’s gay? Of course they do, his sister’s told them often enough, but they choose to ignore it in the hopes it will go away. It has joined the ever-increasing list of Things About Which We Do Not Talk – things about which we will _never_ talk.

Tom has a nephew and a niece of whom he’s fond, but is happy to hand back whenever he’s left in charge. Stuart regrets he’ll never have that and Tom says he can borrow his. It’s a projection too uncomfortably far into the future for either of them.

“Desert Island band?” Stuart asks, apropos of nothing.

“I knew it”.

“What?”

“You’ve been rifling through my record collection”.

“So?”

“So, it was in alphabetical order before I gave you free rein of the place… and now… it isn’t”.

“Sorry. I was curious. It’s… erm… eclectic. You’ve got everything from Sinatra to The Sex Pistols - you’re a difficult man to pin down”.

“Good. I shall endeavour to keep it that way. And I bet Sinatra is nowhere near The Sex Pistols anymore”.

“Tease. Go on…Desert Island?”

“Bowie”, Tom answers, without having to think about it, “Usually found somewhere between Blondie and Brubeck”.

“Of course… Bowie, yeah, that makes sense”.

Tom explains that Ziggy Stardust, Top of the Pops, moment in ’72 is a slice of national and personal history on which he will never have perspective. Crammed on the sofa with his uber-cool sister and horrified parents, when Bowie threw his languid arm round Mick Ronson and pointed down the camera at _you_ … well, he’s never recovered from it.

“What about you?”

“Stones”

“Really? Not The Clash, or some such? You’re too young for The Stones”.

“Love The Clash but, if we’re talking Desert Island, it’d have to be The Stones. Besides, I’m too young for you - but there’s no accounting for taste is there?”

Tom laughs and agrees and says he could peaceably share Stu’s island if they only had Bowie and The Stones to listen to.

“Yeah, me too”, nods Stu.

Emboldened by beer and laughter, Stuart dares to ask about the man – the man who broke Tom’s heart. Tom looks skyward, drawing strength while he decides whether to shut this down or not. Not - he concludes - plough on, get the damn thing out, nothing to lose.

His name was – _is_ – Michael, he was a mature student on Tom’s course at Bristol – at that time in your life when the mature students seem so very grown up and sorted. It’s only later you realise, although they might know how to run a bank account and feed themselves without developing scurvy, they have no peer group. Too old for the other students, too young for the lecturers - they’re as much at sea as you, lonely, and yes, probably only five minutes older. The wife was already lined up – a girlfriend from home he’d kept on the back burner the whole time...everyone congratulating him on maintaining a long-distance relationship and never looking at another girl. The irony. Still...inevitable really.

Stu says there’s something he really wants to know but doesn’t think he should ask - which, of course, forces the question. “Have you ever had sex with a woman?”

Tom grins at him, “Stuart, I believe you are a dreadful gossip”.

“Yeah? So does Scripps. Ah well, if the cap fits. Don’t change the subject – have you or haven’t you?”

“Not a woman, no. A girl, yes”.

Stu’s jaw drops.

“A girl when I was at school, my own age, you idiot. I was quite drunk and she was very determined and… kind, I suppose. We were friends; we still send Christmas cards”.

“What was it li…

“… not awful, Stuart. And that will do”.

Stu holds up his hands – conceding defeat.

Tom says, “Stu, I can’t see how it would happen, but if you were ever to meet Michael, I wouldn’t really want you to… you know”.

“Make it awkward… cause a scene?"

“Yes. I don’t wish it had never happened. I’m trying to get to a place where I remember the good bits fondly and forget the rest – forgive anyway. He chose an easier life, and who could blame him? I don’t wish him ill, or at least, I don’t want to wish him ill - but I often fail. Does that make sense?”

Stu wants so much to kiss him by way of reply, but has to hope his smile conveys it. “Yeah, it makes sense because you’re a nice man.”

“Nice? Thanks”.

“You know what I mean – decent, honourable… am I helping or making it worse?”

“With getting to that place? Both, if I’m honest. You’re helping me gouge out the splinter – it’s painful but satisfying”.

“Well, there’s an image… hmmm… I shall ever think of myself as a needle getting under your skin”.

Completely unexpectedly, Tom begins to sing quietly in a soft, warm tenor… “ _I tried so not to give in. I said to myself, this affair never will go so well. But why should I try to resist when baby I know so well. I’ve got you_ …”

“Under my skin. Sinatra? Funnily enough, one of my mum’s favourites - look where that sentiment got her. Singing in public – you've only had a pint!”

“No one can hear me and I’m sober as a judge. Cole Porter. Sinatra. Nelson Riddle. Holy trinity”.

Stuart laughs, “Okay, I get it. I will put your records back in alphabetical order and chronologically within that, if it makes you happy”.

“It makes me very happy”.

“Then you shall have it”, Stu beams.

Stuart asks about the practicalities of his new job - where and when and how. He doesn’t start properly until September, though he’ll need a few more trips like the last one. He’s staying with an aunt in The Barbican, until he finds his own place. Tentatively, he asks if Stu will visit him, once he’s sorted. Stu grins and says, “What do you think?” A free place to stay in London with guaranteed sex, is not a gift horse to be looked in the mouth, is it? Tom doesn’t tell him that, as Scripps suspected, he’s already factored Stu into the whole escapade.

And so, the afternoon wears on - talking of many things: of shoes and ships and sealing-wax and cabbages and Kings – Henry VIII, naturally, because doesn’t he get everywhere?

Until Stuart notices the sun, getting low in the sky, is lighting a trail along the golden hairs of the lightly freckled arm that his own arm is not - definitely not - touching. Golden hairs, mingling with his darker ones, creating a synaptic leap between them he can no longer ignore. Checking there’s no one watching, he grabs Tom’s hand and pulls it under the table. “Let’s go home”, he says. And Tom thinks he’s never heard three more seductive words.

Earlier in the day, Stuart had jokingly asked if Tom wanted any of his proclamations in writing. This evening, he will write an old-fashioned love letter - a hostage to fortune - telling Tom everything sacred and profane that’s drawn him back to him. He will reiterate his promises - slightly more coherently and with considerably less obscenity - and give it to Tom with more trepidation at the thought of his judgement than any benighted essay. There will be times in his life when the sudden remembrance of this ever-fixed mark will give him a stomach-lurching, prickle-necked wince of embarrassment. And times when it doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Did it work out? Did you have a dreamy afternoon drinking with the boys? God that sounds appealing right now.
> 
> The poem is Ode on Melancholy (Keats) - which is very sexy IMO. 
> 
> The song is Under My Skin - Cole Porter via Frank Sinatra.


End file.
